


Pass the Cheese

by pukajen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all their years together and despite all the years apart, they had a routine of sorts down: Sundays, assuming no cases were on, they would make breakfast together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pass the Cheese

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous thanks to my amazing beta Soundingsea who turned this around multiple betas over the course of a couple of days because I was a moron and forgot about the deadline. 
> 
> This is for the 'Pass the Cheese' challenge over on 'Your Daily Dose of Johnlock' on tumblr.

After all their years together and despite all the years apart, they had a routine of sorts down: Sundays, assuming no cases were on, they would make breakfast together. Breakfast usually consisted of whatever was on the verge of going off in the fridge being tossed into eggs; an omelet if Sherlock was in charge of the pan, scrambled eggs or a frittata if it was John's turn to do the actual cooking.

John, never one to waste money, gathered everything that he deemed egg-friendly – some things had been eliminated over the years (never again were they going to put Pad Thai in eggs. Eggs could go in Pad Thai, but Pad Thai did not go in eggs) – and they set about making breakfast. Sometimes the only hearty meal of the week. 

Even once he had plenty of money – though John had insisted on returning all untouched inheritance he'd received from Sherlock's estate when Sherlock had returned from the grave, which had been a considerable sum, it wasn't as if John was now poor. Far from it as Sherlock had convinced John to keep Mary's money, though John had only kept the initial fee of two million pounds that Mary had been paid to keep tabs on John; the rest, he and Sherlock had donated to various charities – John kept up the Sunday morning ritual.

Which Sherlock was incredibly pleased about. 

Four months had passed since John's latest – and if it was within Sherlock's control, permanent – return to Baker Street. And while it wasn't as if time had passed unchanged they were finally settling back into a routine of sorts. 

There were some exceptions, which Sherlock quietly treasured. 

They ate more meals at home. At first that was a defence against the paparazzi that followed them about London; then, it was just something they did. They sat down and ate at the table far more often now than they ever had before. Not every day, but several times a week.

The table now had a two inch strip of gaffers tape running down the last quarter, sectioning off the food only area from the part where Sherlock was grudgingly confining his experiments – there was a certain look that John gave him when he went beyond the gaffers tape that Sherlock wanted to avoid. Sherlock only ever encroached onto the rest of the space when he was certain John was out either for work (which he still insisted on doing, despite the abundance of money, though he did now work at a different clinic from the one where he'd 'met' Mary) or out at the pub with Mike or Lestrade or one of the dreadful rugby people John had taken to associating with, apart from the twice-monthly matches and weekly practices. 

Usually, they sat side by side on the couch. 

Ostensibly, it was because it prevented stains on the carpet when they passed various sauces back and forth. However, as they were prone to sitting close enough to have their elbows bumping more often than not – and thus staining the couch when they jarred each other while eating – the reason didn't really hold up.

“Sherlock!” John's voice broke into Sherlock's reverie. A small smile turned up John's lips and echoed in his eyes. “There you are.”

“I didn't go anywhere,” Sherlock said, looking around the kitchen just to make sure he was where he thought he should be. Yes, standing at the worktop in the middle of cutting up a courgette to sauté for John's frittata. 

John was feeling adventurous this morning, as courgettes usually ended up in the bin.

“Not physically, maybe, but you were somewhere deep inside that big brain of yours.” John lightly tapped Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock subtly turned his head into the touch, trying to keep contact as long as possible. 

This too was new: the casual touches, almost always when they were alone, never for any specific reason, but always motivated by something John had said. Sherlock wasn't yet confident enough to return them as he wasn't sure as to the exact root of their motivating factor. 

He hoped.

God did he hope, but he wasn't certain. And that uncertainty had him checking his wants to return touch for touch. 

“Just thinking.”

“When are you ever not thinking?” John asked, smiling up at Sherlock before turning back to his own chopping: red peppers done and John had moved on to the onions while Sherlock had been lost in his thoughts.

“Organising then.”

Grinning, John set aside his knife and rinsed off his hands.

Topping up both of their coffee cups, John raises his eyebrows in silent inquiry, holding up a bottle. Considering, Sherlock nodded and John added a good measure of whisky to their cups. 

“Figures you'd tidy up your Mind Palace, but let this place descend into chaos.” 

“I know where everything is,” Sherlock said indignantly as he resumed his chopping duties after a long swallow of doctored coffee. 

“Just because you know where things are – which I don't actually believe – doesn't mean that this place doesn't need a good cleaning.”

“Mrs. Hudson cleans when it needs it.”

“Apart from not being our housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson is nearly eighty and shouldn't be forced to clean up after two grown men.”

“I don't see you pulling out the hoover every other week to do your part,” Sherlock pointed out. At least, he didn't think John hoovered unless there was a specific reason for it. 

“I'm just saying, we should try to make the effort.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock didn't believe for a moment that John wanted to hoover any more than he did, which was to say not at all. Every now and then John would get it stuck in his head that they needed to do something to be more productive – normal, boring – members of society, often involving the flat's state of neatness, and rant and grumble about it for a day or two, then move on to something else. 

From the tone of his voice, cleaning the flat was something John thought they should do as Responsible Adults. However, neither of them were even close to being responsible – boring – people so Sherlock wasn't too worried that he would wake tomorrow to find a set of cleaning products under the sink and a schedule sellotaped to the front of the fridge. 

“The jalapeño looks alright,” John said, poking it with his knife. “It was in the crisper for safe food, so I assume that you didn't use this one when trying to make your pepper spray.”

“No, it wasn't hot enough. I needed peppers with Scoville five hundred thousand or higher.”

“Shall I add it in?”

“If you wish.” To which Sherlock really meant, yes please. But, it was John and he didn't need to actually say please. Not that he often did.

Inexplicably, John turned and pulled out a pair of latex gloves from the box on the table behind them, before he started chopping up the jalapeño. 

Studying him, Sherlock diced garlic. John wasn't allergic to peppers. So he wasn't going to be affected by the pepper's oils, no more so than anyone else. 

That unfortunate incident with the extraction of the habanero oil had affected them both equally and ended Sherlock's experiment on which pepper would be best used to make pepper spray even more effective than what the police currently used. 

Also, while it was technically illegal for him to have pepper spray, it wasn't illegal for him to try to make it. Assuming he didn't actually succeed. Which, in all honesty, he hadn't, despite what Public Health and Safety claimed. 

Still, the gloves were a curiosity he couldn't quite figure out. John didn't have contact lenses, so touching his eyes wouldn't be a problem. He had wanked that morning in the shower and the brief contact of holding his penis while urinating shouldn't transfer enough of the jalapeño's oils to cause significant burning.

Watching John deftly chop up the jalapeño into tiny cubes – enough to taste without overpowering – Sherlock tried to theorize as to why the gloves. 

Even if John was scheduled to work at the clinic tomorrow, he would never touch any sensitive areas on a patient without gloves. 

“Less staring, more cutting up of garlic,” John told him, tossing the seeds, top, and veins of the jalapeño into the bin liner they were using for compostables. 

“It's done,” Sherlock said.

“Then how about you start cracking the eggs?” John peeled off the gloves as he spoke and threw them in the regular rubbish bin. 

“Just tell me!” Sherlock snapped, unable to not ask.

“Tell you what?” John asked with a maddening little smile.

“You know what! Why did you put the gloves on to cut up the jalapeño?”

“Didn't want the oils absorbing into my fingers.”

“Yes! Obviously,” Sherlock said with impatience. “But why?”

“Because it's unpleasant?”

“Not enough to notice on skin as callused as fingertips.”

“There are many other places on the body that will burn if they come into contact with my hands hours later.”

“But you have no need to touch those areas!”

“Hmmm,” was, maddeningly, John's only answer. 

Nudging Sherlock aside, John rummaged in the cupboard for a frying pan. In the intervening two weeks since they had last made breakfast, the pans had been buried under various reusable containers John insisted they kept. 

In companionable silence, they cooked the vegetables. Or, rather, John fried up the vegetables as Sherlock grated the cheese. It was a point of contention between them: John would have bought pre-shredded cheese as he hated the task of grating cheese, while the very thought of the low-quality products that masqueraded as cheese of convenience made Sherlock shudder. 

John claimed there was no difference in taste, but then again, John would happily eat fake eggs if nothing else was available. So Sherlock didn't really count his opinion as valid in this matter.

Scooping the now cooked vegetables out onto a plate to cool slightly, John dug out the dish to bake the frittata while Sherlock got the bowl for mixing the eggs and placed it on the worktop.

Without speaking, John leaned into Sherlock until Sherlock shuffled aside enough for John to be able to reach the heavy oatmeal coloured bowl that was strictly for cooking. 

Huffing his irritation, Sherlock grabbed the eggs from where they were sitting next to the fridge on the worktop and passed them to John. 

Competently, John cracked the seven remaining eggs into the bowl and began to beat them with a fork. Sherlock noted that the movements were a bit awkward; John's shoulder must be stiff due to the weather change.

Leaning into him, Sherlock took possession of the fork and mixed while John held the bowl steady. They were pressed together, John's right side to his left. Sherlock wondered if John could feel the way his heart skipped a beat – totally false, as hearts don't actually skip, but his heart rate always increased when John was this close so the idiom wasn't completely misguided – or if John didn't notice any difference. 

John's own heart rate was steady, but then it often was no matter the situation. Sherlock may have made a study of John's average heart rate while at rest (reading or watching crap television), aggravated (usually while typ(o)ing up his blog or paying bills), after a fright (never again was he going to repeat that experiment; it had taken nearly two weeks for the bruises around his throat and ribs to fade), and Sherlock's favourite: while he was asleep (though this one held the most danger for Sherlock if discovered, it was also the time he was most able to study John).

The only notable exception was for yelling. John's pulse rose to a rather startling level when he was truly furious. Everything about John when he was in a rage was thrilling and startling. 

Conversely, John's body temperature was higher than his and Sherlock could feel the difference along his left side. John often ran hotter than Sherlock did – there were times John took Sherlock's hands, rubbing them to warm them, causing Sherlock to 'accidentally' forget his gloves with greater frequency – though Sherlock had yet to be able to make a study.

As he beat the eggs, Sherlock tried to speculate on scenarios where he could press against John – just to judge John's body temperature. It was for science! How else would he know if there was something wrong with John? – so that Sherlock could get a baseline for John's average temperature, then comparisons. 

Judging the eggs to have been sufficiently beaten – actually, they were well past the point of needing more stirring, but Sherlock was so enthralled with the feel of John against his side as to have missed the optimum point between mixed perfectly and over-beaten. It was for the best that they were making a frittata rather than an omelet or scrambled eggs as their meal would have turned out rather chewy – Sherlock eyed their ingredients. 

It would probably be best to start with—

“Just dump them all in,” John suggested, letting go of the bowl to sip his coffee.

“They need—” 

“To be dumped in the eggs so we can eat some time within the next week.” Grinning up at Sherlock, John grabbed the plate and upended it into the bowl over Sherlock's squawk of objection.

“It would be better to put in each vegetable and make sure that it is thoroughly distributed throughout the eggs before adding the next.”

“It all tastes the same in the end,” John said cheerfully. “You going to stand there all affronted outraged posh indignation, or are you going to thoroughly distribute the vegetables?”

“Bugger off,” Sherlock muttered, not meaning it in the slightest. 

Sherlock loved the easy banter they once again shared. Loved the touching, so much more frequent than before. The fingers that brushed as they passed mugs of tea, John's casual hand at the small of his back as they walked through doors, or shuffled on to crowded trains. (These days, Sherlock always did a mental battle between the horrors of battling the crowds in the tube, but with the potential of John touching him all the more to keep them close, versus relative comfort and privacy of a taxi, but with no John touches.)

Their Oyster cards had been getting used more often than ever before. 

When they ate in restaurants, their legs were bumping, tangling, maintaining some form of contact throughout the meal. 

Lazy Sunday mornings, making breakfast, they would bump into one another, not even bothering to make excuses. 

They didn't have any real plans for the day and Sherlock tried to figure out how he could get John out of the flat, incur more casual touches while weaving through the clumps of people out on a nice Sunday. Maybe they could head over to Borough Market – packed no matter what the weather was – and get some fresh produce. Maybe he would offer to make a lasagna, enough for John to take with him for lunch next week. Both of them loved the fresh pasta from the vendor towards the back. 

“Here,” John said, startling Sherlock into realizing that he'd once again been lost in his own head. “I'll give you a hand.” Turning so that he mostly faced Sherlock, John covered Sherlock's right hand with his left. They contrasted: small and large, light and dark, though both were covered in nicks and scars of lives lived in an unusual and dangerous manner. 

Everything in Sherlock froze at John's touch, then went mad: his heartbeat thundered in his ears, his breath was trapped in his chest, and the only reason his now trembling legs hadn't folded beneath him was that his knees were fused in place. 

The conflicting signals – to meet John's insistent gaze or drop his eyes, to lean in or step back, to stay or flee – rendered Sherlock incapable of doing anything. 

Even mixing the bloody vegetables into the eggs. 

John's hand was rough and warm over his, and a small part of Sherlock was frantically taking in every detail and constructing fragmented bits of fantasies as to how John's hand would feel stroking Sherlock's cheek, running down Sherlock's sweat-slicked back, fisting around Sherlock's cock. 

“Ready?” John asked, voice low and intent, eyes still locked on Sherlock's face.

Letting his breath come out in a whoosh, Sherlock finally got enough control to look up and meet John's gaze; there were questions and promises written across John's face that Sherlock could only half understand, but that he wanted to try to answer and agree to. 

“Ready?” John asked for a second time, a wealth of meaning in the one word.

“Yes,” Sherlock croaked out. 

“Okay.” John let out a long breath and together they stirred in the veg. 

Sherlock watched the colours mix together as if it were the most fascinating of experiments. And all the while, the only thing he could really concentrate on was the feel of John pressed along his left side and the vague agreement of being ready. 

And worry that somehow, Sherlock had misread the look in John's eyes, the timbre of his voice, the way he—

“Hey,” John said softly, “breathe.”

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Sherlock chastised himself for once again holding his breath and telegraphing to John how much turmoil he was in. 

“I think the vegetables are sufficiently mixed in,” Sherlock said, then berated himself for his own inanity. The vegetables were the least of his concerns at this point. 

“Bugger the vegetables,” John said. 

“If that were the plan, I think we shouldn't have chopped them up into such small pieces.”

John let out a bark of laughter that caused some of the tension to drain out of Sherlock. 

“Not really my area,” John said, transporting Sherlock back to the first ever meal they had shared.

Well, not shared as Sherlock hadn't eaten, but still, it was the first of many meals ordered and abandoned in favour of a case. A true predictor of how their relationship was going to be: John ultimately forgoing something he thought he wanted for the reality of what Sherlock could give him. 

And now it seemed John wanted more and, while Sherlock most fervently wanted to provide whatever it was John wanted, Sherlock was worried that he wouldn't be enough.

If his past relationships had taught him nothing else, it was that he was miserable in the boyfriend area. He said the wrong thing, forgot important anniversaries, missed scheduled dates – often, but not always, because he was in the middle of something (experiment, research, a case) – all of which led to very unhappy and unsatisfied partners. 

Two miserable attempts in university – one spectacular failure with the man who had introduced him to cocaine, and one rather pathetic try once sober – all added up to the conclusion that he wasn't suited for long-term relationships. 

Sex could only make up for so much. And, in the end, even that became boring. Orgasms were all well and good, but they weren't a magical cure for the underlying problem: him. 

John eased his hand away from Sherlock's; a slow, dragging movement that meant that John's fingertips caressed each of Sherlock's knuckles, over the back of his hand, causing the fine hairs there to stand on end. 

“We don't have to—”

“No!” Sherlock interjected. “I mean yes. Or, maybe I mean no. I, you, we don't have to. It's not about having to. Except that it is about having to because. No, wanting to. Not having to. But also needing, but not too much—”

“Sherlock.” Just his name, both a statement and a command. 

Sherlock closed his mouth, thankful not to have any more gibberish spill forth. “You're sure?”

In his peripheral vision, Sherlock watched John raise his left hand; he tracked the movement until John's hand was more of an indistinct blur, but by then Sherlock could feel his hand as John cupped Sherlock's jaw. 

For all that Sherlock knew what was coming, it was still a shock to feel John's hand on his face. To feel the splay of John's fingers over his right cheek, sliding down to toy with the curls that framed his face. John's thumb gently stroked over the sharpest point of Sherlock's cheekbone, the callouses on John's hand soothingly rough and reassuring.

A small sound rumbled in the air between them and it took Sherlock several moments to realize that it was he who had made the noise of indistinct pleasure. 

“Sherlock?” John asked again, voice low and intense. John's eyes bored into Sherlock's as if John could pull the very thoughts out of Sherlock's head. 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed out. Abandoning the eggs and vegetables, Sherlock turned to fully face John, watching as something hot and undefinable flared in John's eyes, even as a gentle smile tilted up the corners of John's mouth. “Yes,” Sherlock affirmed, “to whatever it is you want.”

“You,” John breathed out.

It was said simply and definitely and caused everything in Sherlock to cry out in joy and want. 

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed, heart hammering harder than ever it had after a mad dash across London's rooftops. “Yes. That. No. Wait. I want you. I don't want me. I do, however, want you to want me.”

With a soft chuckle, John surged up – must be on his tiptoes – even as he pulled Sherlock's head down. And suddenly, their mouths were pressed together and Sherlock could feel the echoes of John's laughter against his lips. 

It was like nothing he had ever felt before and Sherlock tried to save the whole experience in a special place in his Mind Palace just in case he never got to kiss John again. (His Mind Palace now had a whole wing that was just for John, but kissing John would require a new annex.)

The silky-smooth slide of John's tongue along the seam of Sherlock's lips made every single thought process slam to a halt, sharp and abrupt, then break apart like smoke in a brisk wind. 

There was nothing but feeling. The feel of John's fingers now in his hair – the movement of John's hands from cheek to crown was a mystery – tugging and stroking through strands that were on the verge of too long to be practical. But, Sherlock never wanted to cut his hair again if this was what it felt like to have John's fingers tangle in his hair. 

There was the insistent glide of John's tongue, gently probing as Sherlock parted his lips.

The soft curve of John's stomach as Sherlock's growing erection pushed into him.

And, now, the feel of John's heart pounding in counter-rhythm to Sherlock's, racing just as fast as they moved even closer together. 

They stood, chests pressing together – Sherlock's heart was racing so fast he feared it might very inconveniently explode. But no, a small part of his reason assured him that was the combination of his heart rate (still quite elevated) and John's beating wildly together – Sherlock's hips nestled against John's stomach – Sherlock's cock was starting to get noticeably hard, but he figured what with John's tongue in his mouth, John probably was fine with Sherlock's growing erection pushing into his stomach – their legs slotting together perfectly, having had years of practice under countless tables in hundreds of restaurants and the familiarity of their own kitchen. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, holding him closer still. A small, visceral part of Sherlock was sure that this was all some dream – maybe he'd been hit on the head; drugging wasn't that unusual an occurrence in his life (intentionally, more often than not), or maybe he'd died and this was the last thing his brain was giving him before shutting down – no matter what, Sherlock wanted to hold on to (this) John as long as possible.

Kissing John felt more real than anything else ever had. 

The need for John coursing through him was overwhelming; that John could want Sherlock in return (as was evidenced by the fact that John's tongue was in Sherlock's mouth, that John's erection was pressing against Sherlock's right hip, that John's hands were cupping his face, stroking through his hair, that soft moans were flowing from John's mouth into Sherlock's lungs) was nothing Sherlock could ever have imagined. 

But all the evidence was there for Sherlock to observe, to memorize, to study and and learn and keep forever.

Maybe not keep John forever, but the memories, the knowledge that once John Watson had wanted him so badly as to kiss him in the kitchen one sunny morning was fantastic. 

It was beyond everything.

When John was gone – and Sherlock's heart broke a little at the inevitable – there would be these wondrous memories to play over and over.

Except his body was screaming at him to move things along, to divest John of his clothing, to tear off his own, to taste and touch and mark and be marked (short-term evidence of what was happening between them) before it all ended and there was no more John. No more Sunday morning omelets and kisses and the amazing flavour of John in his mouth.

Sherlock's breath started to come in pants and his hands fisted in the soft cotton of the shirt John slept in, keeping John as close as possible.

Then John started to pull away and Sherlock knew he'd already done something wrong; always too much or not enough. But it had never been quite so fast. 

“Sherlock, hey,” John said, lips still touching Sherlock's so that he felt the words form. Gently, John stroked his hands through Sherlock's hair. “Deep breaths.”

“I can breathe just fine.” Though as it was said in near gasps, it was obvious that he couldn't. 

Why, oh why, just this once, couldn't he get this right?

“In and out.” John demonstrated inhaling and exhaling. “With me.”

Despite wanting to tear away from John, to fling the words that would end this before the pain took him, Sherlock clung to John, and breathed with him. Inhaling when John did, exhaling after a short pause. He could feel the expansion of John's ribs under his hands as they breathed – so not boring right now – together. 

“There we go,” John said. His right hand was now running soothing circles up and down Sherlock's back while his left continued to stroke Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock wanted to object to being treated like an hysterical child, but the hand in his hair and sharing the very oxygen that John was using far outweighed the need to assert himself. Still, it was slightly humiliating that just kissing John had inspired so ridiculous a reaction.

Then again, getting something that he'd been desired for for so long, something that he'd believed was impossible, he could be excused for getting so overwhelmed. 

“I'm fine,” Sherlock said, not pulling away.

“I know you are,” John agreed. “I just want to stay like this a little longer.”

And so they did; they stood in the kitchen, gloomy morning light joining the unflattering glare from the overhead fixture – one that Sherlock was sure Mrs. Hudson had installed as a punishment for the last time he'd accidentally ruined the previous one. How was he to know that grape chewing gum and acid would have such a result? Anyway, he'd solved a murder! – the subdued sounds of the city going about its day muted by glass and wood and brick wrapping around them. 

Sherlock could have stayed there all morning. A soft contentment he'd never before felt settled over him.

“Let's make some breakfast and see how the day goes from there,” John suggested, pulling back just enough to study Sherlock's face.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock objected. Not just on principle as he usually did, but because he didn't want to move out of John's embrace just yet. 

“You might not be hungry now, but I guarantee you'll need your energy later, so let's get cooking, yeah?” The look John was giving him was filled with dark, wonderful promises. John licked Sherlock's lower lip, sending Sherlock's breathing – barely back to normal – into a hitching gasp.

A shiver of lust raced down Sherlock's spine at John's blatant move and Sherlock nodded automatically in agreement. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed; whether it was to the food or the silent promise of more was anyone's guess, but he was willing to agree to nearly anything to get the promise kept.

“Right.” John gave Sherlock a soft, open-mouthed kiss before pulling away. “Breakfast?”

“As that's what we've prepared for,” Sherlock said, turning back to the food. The dichotomy of the mundane task of cooking breakfast versus the pulse-pounding embrace of a moment ago was nearly enough to short-circuit his thought process.

“That we have.” John said, a small, knowing smile playing over his lips as he fished out the fork from the bowl and chucked it in the sink. He pulled a clean one out of the drawer and began mixing eggs and vegetables together.

“The vegetables all sank to the bottom,” Sherlock observed inanely.

“Won't be but a minute to have them all mixed again.” John gave him a quick smile. “Pass the cheese, please.”


End file.
